


Up the Twisted Staircase

by 852_Prospect_Archivist



Category: The Sentinel
Genre: Drama, None - Freeform, Pre-Slash, Series: Jacobs Ladder
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-05-10
Updated: 2013-05-10
Packaged: 2017-12-11 00:19:49
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,821
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/791867
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/852_Prospect_Archivist/pseuds/852_Prospect_Archivist
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Jacob graduates from the Academy; he and Jim get an affirmation of their vocation from an unexpected source.<br/>This story is a sequel to But There Will Be Joy in the Morning.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Up the Twisted Staircase

**Author's Note:**

> Acknowledgements: To my beta readers--JAC, GenieBean, kimberlyFDR, Matilda, rstewart, shallan, slavervick, Sentnlgde, spacecatdet, and gdbessey, thanks. Thanks also to those who read my previous stories and liked them; I hope you like this as much. 
> 
> This story assumes the events of "The Natural" and "But There Will be Joy in the Morning", but comes before "The Sandburg Express." I have tentatively decided to call this series "Jacob's Ladder". This story and "But There Will be Joy in the Morning" are a pair, as this one happened the day after "Joy". "The Natural" is really a "missing scene" from "TSbyBS"; it is not necessary for you to read it to understand the others. "The Sandburg Express" takes place five years down the line. 
> 
> Musical Notes: Yes, I know that The Masterpiece Theatre Theme is really Mouret's Rondeau from the First Suite and that Land of Hope & Glory is really Elgar's Pomp & Circumstances. But I don't think Jim knows; to Jim anything beyond Santana is terra incognita.

## Up the Twisted Staircase

by BAW

Author's disclaimer: This is a work of 'fanfiction' set in the universe of the television series "The Sentinel"; that universe is the property of PetFly, UPN, et al. Counsel's opinion informs me that 'fanfiction'--written for amusement or as a composition exercise--falls within the parameters of the "Fair Use Doctrine." 

* * *

In the men's locker room at the Cascade Police Academy Gymnasium several young men were changing into their dress uniforms. This was the first time that most of them had occasion to wear them. During the preceding weeks the seamstresses and tailors of Cascade had engaged in an orgy of pinning, hemming, darting, and other alterations; the cadets wanted to look their best before their friends and families, and those who were unmarried or without steady girlfriends were well aware that many women find a man in uniform irresistible. 

After all these weeks of classes and training the young men were looking forward to the day's activities. The ceremony itself would probably be dull, but the celebrations afterwards were eagerly anticipated; and beyond that, for the latest graduating class of the Academy, this day was the realization of a lifetime's dream--to become officers of the law, servants and protectors of the people. 

One of the men, smaller and older than most, stood a little apart from the others, not joining much in the jokes and banter. The others were not precisely unfriendly to him, but there was a sense that he was not really one of them; they all knew that he was different. More importantly, he knew that he was different. 

This was not the graduation I anticipated. I had always seen myself in a long black silk robe with dark blue velvet trim--not the dark blue wool tunic and matching trousers, Sam Browne belt, epaulettes, gold buttons, CPD insignia on the collar, matching visored hat. No, don't call it a hat. Cover. 

'Professor Blair J. Sandburg' had a nice ring to it. But 'Professor Blair' is dead; 'Officer B. Jacob Sandburg', and soon to become 'Detective B. Jacob Sandburg', is about to greet the world. Someday 'Professor Blair J.' may be resurrected; or perhaps 'Detective B. Jacob' could become 'Professor B. Jacob'--a hybrid being. 

Graduation. From the Latin gradus, meaning, a step on a flight of stairs or a rung of a ladder; by extension a stage of development, a part of a progression. Progression, from the Latin progradior, "I step forward." Also called "commencement", from the Italian, commencere, to begin. It isn't the end of a course of studies; it is the start of the rest of one's life. But who would have thought that I would be going through this commencement, or graduation, or whatever you call it? 

I remember a quote: 

"In vain man's expectation 

God brings new things to be-- 

as here we see." 

Was it Euripides or Sophocles? And which play? 

How many of my classmates here would recognize a quote from Euripides or Sophocles if it were to sneak up and bite them on the behind? No, that wasn't fair. They're all bright guys, many of them are college graduates and well-read. Still, I know that nobody has gotten here by quite so indirect a route as I have! 

When did I know that I would end up here? Was it in the bullpen, when Simon threw me that gold shield? No, I think I had been moving towards this ever since Jim shoved me against the wall. What was I feeling then? Was I scared? No, not really. Anyone watching might have been scared for me, but I knew Jim wasn't really trying to hurt me; even then I knew, somehow, that he'd never deliberately hurt me. But from that point on I knew my life would be totally different. 

Was it when I bashed the Switchman (Switchwoman, actually), or when the Sunrise Patriots took over the station and I fought them with whatever weapons came to hand? Was it when Alex shoved me into the fountain and I saw the wolf and the jaguar merge? At some point I knew I could never retreat back into the safe world of the University or give in to the wanderlust which had characterized my mother's life, and mine up to that point. At some point I knew that I had a responsibility to protect and serve the people of Cascade, no less than the oath bound officers. 

As an Anthropologist, and as a student of the kindred disciplines of History and Archaeology, I knew how much work and love goes into building up a civilization. I also knew how fragile even the greatest civilization could be, and how easily "chaos and old night" could return. I also knew even that there were those out there who would be just as happy if they were to return, and who would work bring them back if they could. And I knew how many ordinary men, women, and children, who wanted nothing more than to "make their garden grow", would suffer if that were allowed to happen. But that was head-knowledge, not heart-knowledge. In tagging after Jim, I came to know all this in my heart. I saw that Jim and the other members of the Force did all they could to hold back the darkness; I also found--surprise!--that I had a natural talent for that sort of work. Even if my dissertation hadn't imploded on me like that, could I have retreated into the academic cocoon, or gone haring off to some exotic corner of the world, knowing I had the talent to help, knowing that there were people I could have helped if I had stayed? No, I couldn't have -- not and lived with myself. 

Did I, perhaps, at some level want what happened to happen? I could have hidden my work better, protected it from snoops like Mom. I love her dearly, but she's like Kipling's Mongoose and Elephant's Child all rolled into one. But I never could have published it; no matter how much I "changed the names to protect the innocent", someone would have been able to figure out that Jim was my Sentinel. Yet I kept on with the research. I could have changed my topic. But could I have done a new dissertation before the deadline? An A.B.D. can get only so many extensions, and I had used up most of them with the Sentinel dissertation. 

Mom doesn't understand why I'm doing this, and even if she lives to be a hundred I don't think she ever will; some of her youthful experiences have, understandably, given her a negative view of the police. She was happy that Simon made the gesture, showing that they weren't mad at me, but I don't think she expected me to actually take up the offer. After I told her that I would, we had some go-rounds about it. Jim wanted to jump in, but the Blessed Protector restrained himself to let us work it out ourselves; he's learned that the only thing that can out argue a Sandburg is another Sandburg. He doesn't know how many lawyers there are in our family, but it wouldn't surprise him should he find out! I do hope she comes, but if she doesn't, I'll understand why; I'll be disappointed, but I will understand. 

No, I'm not sorry things fell apart; I wish it hadn't been so messy, but perhaps I needed a swift boot in the touchas to show me what I needed to do, where I needed to be. Which is here, now. Things might have been different--or not. Oh, well--omelets and eggs. 

Its almost time. Morituri te salutamus! 

The Marshall stuck his head into the locker room and ordered the cadets to assemble. They streamed out the door, joining the female cadets from the women's locker room; the combined flood passed then out into the sunlight. The cadets who lived on campus came boiling out of the barracks, and those who had chosen to dress at home came from the parking lot. The Marshall and his assistants got them lined up in alphabetical order, then chivvied the rest of the procession into line. 

The lead trumpeter of the Police Band arose, the Bandmaster lifted his baton, and the clear notes of The Prince of Denmark's March rang over the field. Two by two came the procession: the Commandant of the Academy, with the Commissioner; the Mayor and Chairman of the City Council; Cascade's delegation to the State Legislature; the High Sheriff of Cascade County and the Major commanding the Cascade Division of the Highway Patrol, the representatives of the Cascade divisions of the Army and Air National Guard; the Roman Catholic Bishop of Cascade and the Senior Rabbi of the Reform Synagogue; one of Washington State's U.S. Senators and the Dean of Criminal Justice from Washington State University; the faculty of the Academy; followed by the graduating class. Few noticed one graduate, shorter and older than most of his fellows, whose hair was slightly more than regulation length, marching close to the end of the line. 

We're all here to support Jacob--everyone from Major Crimes, and a smattering from other divisions at Central Precinct. I even saw a few Rainier people in the audience, although they had the grace to sit in the back. 

Dad and Stephen came; I didn't invite them--didn't think they'd be interested. Dad never did like Blair very much, although he has been polite the last few times they met. After the dissertation thing he'd even told me that, if Blair needed a job, something might be worked out at Ellison Industries. Stephen has always rather liked Blair, even though he's a little jealous of him. Blair has become more like a little brother to me than he has been. Both Stephen and I bore our share of the blame for that, but to Stephen's credit he's not taken it out on Blair. Not 'Blair'; he's Jacob now. 

That woman sitting next to Stephen, in the police dress uniform, she looks familiar. If she'd just turn her face this way---why, it's Maggie Ross from Vice! And if I don't mistake the body language, she's Stephen's date. What? When? How? She can't have told him about. . . oh, I'll never live it down. No, she wouldn't; she couldn't. Could she? But I do want to find out where those two met. 

There's Naomi. I didn't think she'd come. After all the trouble she caused, she has some nerve showing up. Connor's is thinking that too; steam's practically coming out of her ears. But she is his Mother, when all is said and done, and I suppose she has every right to be here. 

Ah, the music starts. That's the same piece the organist played when Carolyn and I got married. "The Prince of Denmark's March." I never did learn who the Prince of Denmark was. Here come the high mucky-mucks; now the instructors. The music shifts--"Masterpiece Theater "? Well, I'm glad they didn't pick "Land of Hope & Glory"---that might evoke memories and regrets for Sandburg. Here come the graduates; alphabetical order. I see Sandburg; he's a little pale, and his heart is fast. He's controlling his breathing well, though. 

Bishop Murphy is approaching the podium; he's listed to give the invocation. Rabbi Horowitz will give the benediction--assuming we don't all die of boredom after all the speeches. 

I can't believe he's actually doing it. I didn't raise my boy to be a pig. Please, God, Goddess, whoever. . .stop it. Fire, flood, earthquake, lightening. Something, anything. 

Steady, girl. You always told Blair to be his own man, to make his own decisions. Just because you don't like those decisions doesn't mean the end of the world. 

But a cop. A pig. How could he? He cut his hair, his beautiful hair. And that uniform. I hate uniforms. We're supposed to express our individualities with our clothing--how can he do that when he's dressed like everybody else? He looks so serious, so sober. Where's the joy, the sparkle? Where's the bounce? He's not Blair any more. He's Jacob, and I can scarcely recognize my Blair in Jacob. 

Naomi Zipporah Sandburg, you know what happened. You happened. You killed Blair, you turned him into Jacob. You stuck your big nose into his business and your interference killed his dream. Be glad he doesn't hate you. 

I'm turning into my mother! She tried to run my life for me and I fled fast and far. I don't regret anything. . .well, not much. But I swore that I wouldn't become a Yiddishe Mamma and . . .I am one. Under all these veils and scarves, under the beads and crystals, under the incense, I'm just like my mother. Naomi, the Flower Child Gone to Seed, the New Age Yenta! 

Well, girl, you may not be able to change the past, but you can shape the future. Your mother drove you away; don't you dare do the same thing to your son. You may not like what he's become, but he does. So smile, already, act like you're proud of him. You can cry later. 

The speeches were made, the diplomas passed out, the benediction read, and the band played the recessional. Major Crimes formed a phalanx, with Naomi Sandburg and William & Stephen Ellison behind. It cut through the crowd to where Officer (soon to be Detective) B. Jacob Sandburg waited. Officer Sandburg was hugged, kissed, thumped on the back, and generally made much of. A camera was produced and several snapshots were taken--the new officer with each of his friends. 

Jim insisted on a family group--himself, his father, and his brother with Jacob. His look at his father and brother said, more clearly than words, "Jacob is a part of my family, as much as you two are. Deal with it or get lost." 

Naomi Sandburg threw her arms around her son and smiled. The Sentinel could tell from her heartbeat and breathing that inside she was screaming to high heaven, but Naomi had been--among other things--an actress, and nobody else noticed. 

Jim felt a gentle prodding in his back, and turned around to see a very old woman in a lavender silk dress, trimmed with white lace, with a cameo at her throat. A black silk shawl was around her shoulders, and a black walking stick with a silver handle--the source of the prodding--was in her hand. Her hair was beyond white, and her face was covered with wrinkles; but her back was almost militarily erect and her eyes shone with both wit and humor. 

"Jimmy Ellison, as I live and breathe!" she said, "Why haven't you been to see me?" 

"Mrs. Rollvaag? I had heard you were dead!" exclaimed Jim, who sounded both surprised and pleased. 

"That was my daughter-in-law. Never liked her anyway." 

"I'm glad to see you, ma'am, but what brings you to the Academy Graduation?" 

"My great-grandson graduated today. Here he comes. Lars, I want you to meet three old friends of mine: Mr. William Ellison and his sons James and Stephen. James is a detective in Major Crimes. Ellisons, this is my great-grandson, Lars Andressen." 

Lars was a tall, heavy-set young man with hair and eyebrows so blond as to be almost white; between the heat and the excitement, he was turning decidedly pink. 

"Welcome aboard, Andressen. Where are they assigning you?" 

"The Seventh Ward, sir. Bicycle patrol, neighborhood policing, sir. Jacob has told me so much about you, sir; its great to meet you at last, sir." 

"That's a good assignment; riding a bike all day will certainly keep you fit! Congratulations." 

"Yes, sir. Thank you, sir," replied Lars, blushing almost purple. Jacob put his hand on his shoulder and murmered, "Lars, breathe, relax." 

"Jimmy, we're having a little party at my place for Lars. Please come. Bring your father and brother--and your fellow-detectives, too. There's enough food and drink for all. I'm sure you remember where it is. You spent enough time there as a boy." 

Major Crimes had planned a potluck at Simon's for Jacob, but it was plain that Mrs. Rollvaag was special to Jim; accordingly, Simon decreed that everyone was to take his or her stuff to Mrs. Rollvaag's place. 

"So, Chief, you did it." 

"Yes, Jim. At last," replied Jacob, "Who is this Mrs. Rollvaag?" 

"Sort of a surrogate grandmother," explained Jim, slightly wistfully, "She'd have Stephen and me come over to do chores and yard work, but I think it was an excuse to give us cookies and lemonade. Her kids were older than we--only the youngest lived at home, and she was in college. I don't think I ever knew her husband; he died when I was little. I'm not sure what he did for a living, but he traveled all over the world. Mrs. R. had all sorts of things from Africa and Asia and South America. I should have taken you to her place years ago, but I had heard that she was dead. She must be nearly a hundred by now, after all." 

"I had Lars in some of my classes. He was always asking me about you. I think I detect a bit of hero worship there." 

Jim's ears turned slightly pink. 

"I like Lars," Jacob continued, "He's smart, and was always very friendly to me. Not like some." 

"Did anyone give you any trouble?" 

"Oh, some. Called me geezer. You know, the way I tease you about being old." 

"Nobody gave you trouble about. . . .you know what?" growled Jim, starting to go into Blessed Protector mode. 

"Not much; if they read about it they read about Blair; I don't think any of the stories mentioned my middle name, and 'Sandburg' is a fairly common surname. Blair's most distinguishing feature was his hair; once I was shorn I looked so different that not many made the connection, at least at first. Some of them found out, and they were curious, but for the most part polite about it. There was one guy, though; he came out with a spiteful little remark about sawed-off lying Jewish bastards. We got teamed up in Self-Defense class and I dislocated his shoulder. No, Jim, not on purpose, really--I was just mad and used a little more force than I ought to have. He was the only really bad one. But I knew I had to do really well to be accepted at all. Sort of like the first minorities in Ivy League schools, you know." 

"Well, you did do well. You should have been valedictorian." 

"No, Jim," explained Jacob, "Nobody who 'challenges out' more than a certain percentage of the curriculum can be considered for any form of graduation honors. You know that. They routinely waive basic English and History and Math for a college graduate, and I was able to test out of most of the procedural classwork from what I picked up working with you." 

"You did very well in Self-Defense and Pursuit Driving, and not too shabbily in Firearms." 

"But I never thought I'd finish the Obstacle Course. I think they were thinking of videotaping my attempts to go over the wall and sell it to raise money for the P.A.L." 

"You got it eventually, that's the main point," said Jim firmly, "Your time wasn't the fastest, but you were in the top quarter of your class." 

The truck pulled up to a large house that screamed 'Old Money.' 

"Is this Mrs. Rollvaag's place?" 

"Right, Chief. I suspect that the Rollvaag clan won't care for your friend Lars' choice of profession." 

By all rights the party should have been a disaster. Somehow, it wasn't. 

Mrs. Rollvaag had hired one of the most exclusive caterers in Cascade for her great-grandson's graduation party, and had invited most of Cascade's Social Register. Lars, on the other hand, had invited his closest friends and favorite instructors from the Academy; furthermore, the last-minute invitation to the Ellisons had also brought in Major Crimes--who brought what they had made for the cancelled-at-the-last-moment potluck. Now, each of the groups invited--High Society, the Academy contingent, and Major Crimes--consisted perfectly nice people, just as every item on the buffet was perfectly wholesome and good to eat. Yet on neither count would one expect them to go together. Yet, somehow, everyone had a good time. 

Jim and Jacob got separated early on. Lars grabbed Jacob and took him off with some of the other new grads. Jim somehow hooked up with--of all people--Bishop Murphy. (What was he doing there? Mrs. Rollvaag was a Lutheran, wasn't she?) Talking to His Grace wasn't nearly as dull as he thought it would be. Who knew that he had been chaplain to a Ranger unit? And a missionary in Peru? 

After a bit someone came up and asked the Bishop about something that had happened at the Cathedral. Jim excused himself and drifted off towards the buffet table. On the way he saw Jacob sitting on a couch talking to--again, of all people--Dr. Horowitz and Mrs. Rollvaag. The former excused himself, and the latter demanded that Jim join them. 

Mrs. Rollvaag was talking about her late husband, who had been in the import-export business; he, apparently, had traveled extensively in Asia, Africa, and South America; the house was full of the relics of his travels. 

"Jimmy," she said, "I have something I've been saving for you. Could you look in the top right-hand drawer of that sideboard? You'll find a red leather box." 

Jim dutifully retrieved the requested item, handed it to his hostess, and at her gesture sat down next to Jacob. Just as she was about to open the box and display the contents, somebody opened a door and in came her dog and cat--both of whom should have been exiled for the duration. 

The cat was--as someone later described it--"the largest feline I've ever seen outside of a cage in the zoo." It was solid black, and had blue eyes. It made a beeline for Jim and jumped in his lap. From there it reared up on its hind legs, set its forepaws on his chest, and butted its head against his face. It then lay down as though to take a nap. Jim tried to lift it off, but it gave just a touch of claw. 

The dog went straight to Jacob. It was an enormous husky/malamute type--gray and white with blue eyes. It laid its head on Jacob's knee, accepted a scratch behind the ear, then slid down his leg into a heap at his feet. 

Mrs. Rollvaag stared at the two animals, her fair Scandinavian face even paler than normal. Jim and Jacob thought at first that it was mere embarrassment at her guests' discomfiture. It became quickly apparent that there was something else. Her mouth moved as though she were trying to speak; then her eyes rolled back into her head and Jacob caught her as she fell forward in a faint. 

It was fortunate that there were so many law officers present. The Commandant, as senior officer present, took charge. She ordered the senior officers to make sure that everyone's belongings got back to them, that all civilian guests other than the family were ushered to their cars, and that civilians who had come with officers were given rides home. The new officers--except for Sandburg--were set directing traffic, to be sure that everyone got on the road without blocking the way for the paramedics. Jom found the old lady's smelling salts, which Jacob administered. Jim poured her a brandy and they both got her settled on the sofa. 

By the time the paramedics arrived, Mrs. Rollvaag was feeling much better, and refused to go to the hospital. Her blood pressure was only slightly elevated--only to be expected from the excitement--and at least two reliable witnesses asserted that she had not hit her head, so the EMTs did not push it. She briskly ordered everyone to leave her alone with Jim and Jacob. They propped her up on pillows, spread an afghan over her legs, and set the brandy at her elbow. The cat jumped into her lap, and the dog sprawled on the floor in front of the couch. 

"Now," she said, "where is that box? Oh, you have it, Jimmy. Good. I suspected that these should go to you two, and now I know. My husband brought them back from Peru on his last trip, and before he died he told me that I would know, when the time came, to whom I should give them. Open the box, please, Jimmy." 

Jim complied, and found two felt bags. In each bag was a silver medallion, about the diameter of a silver dollar and a little more than twice as thick. Around the edge was a broad band in a geometric design; the back was decorated in a stylized pattern of leaves and flowers; on the face one had a jaguar, the other a wolf, both carved in high relief. Both animals had turquoise chips set in the eyes. Each hung from a silver chain of heavy, flat links; each link was engraved with a pattern similar to the border of the medallion, and was long enough to let the medallion rest over the middle of the wearer's sternum. The medallions and chains were obviously the work of a master silversmith. Mrs. Rollvaag gave the wolf to Jacob and the jaguar to Jim. 

"Mrs. Rollvaag," asked Jacob seriously, "what do you know about these medallions? Where and how did your husband get them?" 

"Well, dear, I know he picked them up in Peru, but if he told me exactly where and how I've forgotten. I remember that he wouldn't sell them; he said he was keeping them for the true owners, who would appear when they were ready. He said he would know who they were when the time came, and before he died he told me that I must keep them for the true owners. When Jimmy came back from Peru I had a feeling that he might be one of the two, and for a while I have suspected that you might be the other; the animals confirmed it. I've never seen Fenris and Tybalt behave like that before." 

"Jim," said the excited Jacob, "the designs look Chopec, but the Chopec aren't metalworkers, are they?" 

"No, Chief," Jim agreed, "they do little metal work, and certainly aren't capable of this level of sophistication. Not now and not--how long ago was this, ma'am?' 

"Oh, I think he brought these back in '58 or '59, dear. My, how time flies. Jimmy, it was good to see you again, but I'm tired. Do come back soon, and when you do bring your friend here; bring your brother too, if you can pry him away from his office." 

She promptly fell asleep. Tybalt nestled a little more deeply into her lap, and Fenris growled gently to let the men know to leave his mistress alone. 

"Well, Chief, its finally official. You're a member of Cascade's Finest," said Jim as they entered the Loft. 

"At last. Five years ago if anyone had told me I'd end up this way, I'd have politely referred them to the psych department." 

"Are you happy with it, Chief?" 

"Yes, Jim, I am. How many times to I have to tell you? Things might have been different, but they couldn't have been better." 

"Chief, I have one more graduation present for you," said Jim, pulling a large manila envelope out of a drawer. 

"Jim, what is it?" 

"Open it." 

"It looks like some sort of legal document. . .a deed to the loft?" 

"Chief, now that you're my official partner, I decided to make everything official. I told you after. . .well, after Alex, that this was your home. This makes it legal. Joint tenancy with right of survival." 

"Which means?" 

"That whichever of us dies first, the other gets it all, anything in our wills notwithstanding." 

"Oh, Jim!" 

Jim was nearly knocked down by the force of a small, but muscular body slamming into him. A curly head was buried in his chest, and muffled sounds of mixed laughter and tears emerged. 

"Jim, nobody's ever done such a wonderful thing for me! I've never had a home before. You've done so much for me, I don't know what I've done to deserve it." 

"Chief. . .Sandburg. . .Blair." 

"I'm Jacob now, Jim. Blair is gone." 

"Jacob, then. Blair taught me how to live again. More than teaching me how to master my senses before they mastered me. Blair taught me compassion and empathy. He taught me to care. He taught me to remember that there was goodness and beauty in the world. 'Two men looked out/ through iron bars. // One saw mud--/ the other, stars.' I could only see the mud before--Blair taught me to see the stars. Can Jacob keep me from forgetting?" 

"Of course, Jim. Blair told you that Jacob was a nice guy, and that you'd like him. I'm really not that different from him." 

The two men hugged again. 

"I'm beat, Jim," said Jacob, "Shower, some herbal tea, and bed." 

"Same for me, Jacob," replied Jim, "but beer instead of the tea." 

"On second thought, beer for me, too." 

The two men took turns in the shower and changed into sweats and t-shirts. Once they were relaxed on the couch, watching the news and sipping their beers, Jacob opened the box from Mrs. Rollvaag's house. He lifted out the bags with the medallions, then sat up, setting his beer on the coffee table. 

"Jim, there's a slit in the box's lining. And underneath there's a sheet of paper, with writing on it. Wait, no--don't touch it!" 

Jim drew back his hand. 

Jacob went into his room and brought out a small canvas pouch, from which he removed some items, including a pair of latex gloves, which he slipped on. 

"This paper," he explained as he carefully pulled it out of the box's lining, "is old and brittle. Fortunately, I took Document Conservation and have kept the kit. Let's see if I remember the techniques." 

Jacob carefully unfolded the paper. He took an aerosol can and sprayed the paper, then laid it on a sheet of interfacing. He then slipped an insulating pad under the interfacing, laid a sheet of Stitch-Witchery on top, and ran a warm iron over the adhesive sheet. 

"The spray solution neutralized the acid in the paper and will prevent further decay; it will also buffer the paper against picking up atmospheric acid. The interfacing and Stitch Witchery will strengthen the paper." 

"I don't think I've seen that technique before, but I can see the forensic applications; be sure to have them note that expertise in your file. Can you read it?" 

"It's mostly in Spanish; there are three different hands." said Jacob, the scholar peeking out from behind the detective, "The first handwriting is difficult--like someone who isn't used to setting his thoughts down on paper. Let's see: 

"'I, Juan Ignacio Fernandez Echeverra,'" translated Jacob,"' master silversmith of Cuzco, have made these according to the instructions left me by my great-grandfather, Incohath of the Chopec, keeper of wisdom, who said that those for whom they were made are not yet born, and will live far to the north. 

"'I give these to my son, Francisco, that he may keep them until he shall learn to whom they must go.' 

"This is dated March, 1928," he went on, "Then another hand adds: 

"'I, Francisco Andrs Fernandez Guzmn, after much prayer and meditation, give the medallions my father made to my friend Blue-Eyed Gus, the yanqui; those for whom they were made shall be yanquis, and believe that Gus will see that they get them.' 

"That's dated June of 1958. Then a third hand's written two Biblical citations. Jim, you have a Bible here, don't you? I need to look up these citations." 

"Let me get the Book, Chief." 

Jim pulled himself off the chair and crossed the room to the bookshelf. He took the Bible down and returned to his seat. 

"The first one is Psalms 48:11-14," said Jacob, "Could you read that out?" 

"Sure. One moment. Got it: 'Go around Zion in procession; count the number of her towers, take note of her ramparts, pass her palaces in review, that you may tell generations yet to come that such is God, our God forever; he will be our guide for evermore.' " read the older man, "That's fairly obscure." 

"Yes, it is," agreed Jacob, "Perhaps the next will be plainer. Isaiah 21:11-12" 

"I've found Isaiah; chapter eighteen . . . twenty--got it: 'One calls to me from Seir: Watchman, what is left of the night? Watchman, what is left of it? The watchman answered: Morning comes, and so does night. Come back again and ask if you will.'" 

"Wow." 

"I don't get it." 

"Let's take the whole thing step by step," said Jacob, as though he were tutoring a fairly dim freshman, "Look at the first note. 'Keeper of Wisdom'--that probably means 'Shaman.' That explains the Chopec motifs--this Cuzco silversmith was part Chopec. He was raised in the city in mainstream Peruvian society, but respected the ways of his Chopec relatives. Do you follow me so far?" 

"OK, go on." 

"Well, the medallions get passed on to the maker's son, who gives it to this 'Blue-Eyed Gus'? What do you bet that the late Mr. Rollvaag's name was 'Gustav'?" 

"Well, his grandson works with Stephen, and he's 'Gustav Rollvaag III', so that follows. How do you know he was blue-eyed?" 

"Please, Jim. Rollvaag? Can you say, 'How Swede it is', boys and girls? Sure you can." 

"Norwegian, actually, I think; but Scandinavian, anyway. And it's a beautiful day in the neighborhood." 

"There you are. I would guess that there was an oral tradition about the destination of these medallions that didn't get written down--the old Shaman told his great-grandson something which he passed on to his own son, who may have told Blue-Eyed Gus, known to Cascade society as Mr. Gustav Rollvaag, Sr. He was unwilling or unable to tell his wife in so many words, so he gave those Scriptures to her as clues. " 

"I don't see how the clues point to us." 

"Jim, what is another word for a Watchman? Pretend it's a crossword puzzle." 

Jim furrowed his brows for a moment; his face went blank for a second, then his eyes opened wide. 

"Sen . . .<gulp>! This is . . . ." 

"Weird? Creepy? Spooky?" 

"Those will do nicely. Some part-Chopec silversmith, the better part of a hundred years ago, made these for us? Half a planet and most of a century away? If we take into account that his great-grandfather gave the original inspiration, that would take it back into the Nineteenth. And what about that bit from the Psalms? How does that fit in?" 

"Probably the best reference to a Guide he could find; it certainly doesn't fit me as well as the passage from Isaiah fits you." replied Jacob, "This is how I think it went. Mrs. Rollvaag knew you well when you were a kid; I'm sure she remembered that you could see and hear things other people couldn't; I bet she's followed your career through the media, knew you spent time in Peru. When the brouhaha broke out. . .well, she's a sharp old lady, I'd bet she put two and two together. If we hadn't run into each other today she might have been planning to contact you, to see if she was right. Then when the two animals did their thing--I swear, that dog looks more than half wolf, and that cat looked just like a miniature jaguar--that was icing on the cake." 

"She had no way of knowing about our Spirit Guides--unless she's a Shamaness herself?" 

"No; I don't think she had specific knowledge--but what the animals did clued her in on which medallion went to whom." 

"You don't seem happy about this, Chief," remarked Jim. 

"Happy! This is creeping me out!" exclaimed Jacob, who jumped up from the couch and started to pace. 

"I thought you said that being a Guide was like a priestly vocation. This should please you." 

"I meant it was similar to a priestly vocation, in that it was something I had a strong emotional need to do; I never said I though it was exactly like one, in that some supernatural force implanted that need in me." Jacob stopped pacing and looked straight at Jim, "Jim, you know I'm not conventionally religious, but I do believe in God." 

"Yes, Chief," replied Jim, "I guess that describes me, too." 

"Some people say that She or He has a special task for everyone, something that only a given person can do, and that some people find that task early in life while others must search for it--and that for some the search is the task." 

"Yes, the Sisters at school told me that. Your Mom would be in that last group." 

"Yeah, that makes sense. But I've always thought of that as a way of expressing a psychological truth in theological terms. But this. . . I'm going to have to contact Cousin Mordecai; he may be able to make sense of this." 

"Cousin Mordecai?" 

"He's studying to be a Rabbi." 

"Oh." 

"Dammit, Jim, I'm an anthropologist, not a theologian. Good Lord! I'm sounding like Dr. McCoy! Aaarrugh!" 

Jacob began to pace again; he ran his hands through his hair and grabbed two handfulls. 

"And I don't have enough hair for a decent pull anymore!" 

"Chief, a God who meddles in people's lives---that sort of God makes me uncomfortable. I took a philosophy class in college that talked about the Ground of All Being, the Wholly Other, the Uncaused Cause, the Unmoved Mover, etc., which has always made sense to me--- I guess that makes me a child of the Enlightenment, seeing God as the Great Clockmaker. I read something in a book once: 'Glorious destinies lead to glorious funerals.' " 

"I don't feel any more comfortable about this than you; I'm holding back a major freakout by sheer will power. I'd always thought the Spirit Animals and visions were just our subconscious minds telling us things symbolically. This seems to say that there's some objective reality to the whole mystical side of the Sentinel/Guide thing, and I'm going to have to do some major re-thinking." 

"You're right, Chief," replied Jim, "If there's one thing I've learned over these last few years, its that ignoring things that make us uncomfortable is a sure way to guarantee that they'll rear up and bite our asses at the worst possible time. It may be a corollary to Murphy's Law." 

" I'm going to bed. My brain is numb," said Jacob, gathering his document preservation supplies, "Poets and philosophers and theologians and saints have gone round and round on this for thousands of years. We won't solve the problem tonight. But in any of your philosophy classes, did you ever consider the choice between an improbable possible and a probable impossible? Think about it." 

I don't know why I went to bed. I'm sure I won't sleep a wink. Not after that Parthian shot. I know Jacob's not sleeping either; I can practically hear the wheels turning inside that head of his. 

True, it is possible: 

that a part-Chopec silversmith's son happened to convey to medals to a Yankee trader whose widow happened to become my surrogate grandmother. that the old lady's great-grandson just happened to graduate from the Academy at the same time as Sandburg, resulting in our meeting again. that just happened to go straight to me and the cat straight to Sandburg. And he was right; that cat looked exactly like a miniature jaguar, and that dog is probably more than half wolf. that Blair just happened to have chosen that University and that dissertation subject that his need for just a subject just happened to coincide with my senses' coming online with a vengeance. that he just happened to have been dating that nurse, who just happened to mention me. that all the wierdnesses we've been involved in over the past four years just happened to have landed on our doorstops. It all could have been chance or coincidence; there didn't have to have been a Grand Design involved. 

But the more I try to convince myself, the less I believe it. 

I don't know if I should be alarmed or comforted. 

Either way, I don't think I'll sleep a ........ zzzzzzzzz. . . . 

* * *

End

 


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